


For Mighty King Nothing

by GothMoth



Series: Phantom Phang Phucking Phreaking Phantastical Phabulous Phic Phight Phics 1.0 (The 2019 Edition Revamped) [11]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Character Death, Fallen Kings, Gen, Ghost King Danny Fenton, Introspection, Passing on the throne, Willing Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28915419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothMoth/pseuds/GothMoth
Summary: All the kings horses and all the kings men, can’t put Pariah’s rule back together again. And so without frown, he passes the crown. Onto one who takes it freely, because really? Why build a kingdom for yourself, when you can just take one away from someone else
Series: Phantom Phang Phucking Phreaking Phantastical Phabulous Phic Phight Phics 1.0 (The 2019 Edition Revamped) [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994581
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45
Collections: A Phantom Rule





	For Mighty King Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sailor_Toni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sailor_Toni/gifts).



> Previously: 1,440k

I, a worn old king as I am now, walk across cracks and decay, bits of rubble tumbling away from my feet as I walk along the halls. Each foot landing heavy with a mixture of power and the weight of eons of time long past. Looking to the walls, I trace my fingers across the old designs. Like me they have seen many things come and go, yet have always managed to remain; even if they’re a bit rough around the edges. One thing I’ve always believed, even in my younger years, is that time always corrodes. Whether it corrodes the body, mind, or will, is something that always varies though. 

Stepping into the throne room, _my_ throne room, I take in the tattered throne. Its ribbons and fabric torn, bits blowing from a faint mysterious wind. Like always, it suits me perfectly; a show of my right to rule. Standing before it, I can’t help but run my battle-hardened fingers across its arms. Feeling every nick and groove along the way. Every one tells a story, just like the scars that plaster my form. One from the time some weak dragon said no to me. One from when I dropped my sword in my younger years. And, tracing the freshest burn, this new one from a king in a boys’ body. 

Sitting down, I feel the dusty air billow off the cushion. I watch as the thick dust swirls in the air lazily. The dust can do as it pleases, not a care in the world. It goes where it pleases and none can stop it. I once deemed myself much the same. My power so grand and insurmountable that nothing could stand against me, not alone nor in small groups anyway. 

But change is another constant of time, for I had awoken to a world that had passed me by; one that had gone so far that it needed not my wars nor my control. Not anymore. There is no more bend and bow, they simply leave. There is no power in my rule if none fall under my control or wrath. And none did now. They flee and hide now. Neither willing to serve and be controlled nor fight and start a new reign, like the old ones would and did. This younger generation hid away to pretend like their king did not exist. Or they sought refuge behind the backs and under the throats of stronger beings.

This world had become content in its chaos, and now there are no pieces left for me. I could command and control, gain anew, but that would lead down the old paths where only skeletons lie to be controlled. My dominion rendered to nothing without true souls, true creatures, to control and to fear me. To fear my will. My control. My presence. My _power_.

The creation of fear, the greatest power one can wield, is worthless if they can escape your grasp. But there’s more than one kind of fear, and oh so many ways to create it.

See, I never was like the others. All those others content to their Obsessions and forever feeding them. I want more, _deserve_ more. The definition of power. One could say I’m a classic megalomaniac, that’s just fine enough. The accumulation of power always brings change and is always new. 

But as I look around this place. Its throne room and its throne. There is nothing new about this place anymore. Looking out at cracked and stained glass, and down to burnt rugs. I see nothing but final death, a place stopped in time; and it will never move again. 

The power flow under Pariah Dark has dried to nothing.

Such that I find I’ve gotten all there is with this path, so I’ll grab for the new. New power and new fear. Reaching out to the ectoplasm that swirls its sickly colour I send out my royal call, the beckoning for that which I can grasp and use to instil new terror. Though it may be a different breed of terror altogether. 

My voice, old and worn yet powerful still, rings out across the infinite lands of the Realms with practiced ease. 

“So child hear me, for I am the one calling your name”.

“To that whom walks leaving trails of the damned”.

“One who exists beyond death and life”.

“Before you lies the path of fallen kings”.

“A being from another world, I bring you up to my level”. 

My command blasts out across to every corner, seeking out its charge. My past, a great splendid thing, but this future, the one I will build and push. That I will seek and see to fruition. Will be **absolution** , the embodiment of power brought forth by my hand and that one half-formed impossibility.

It was clear as they fled and rallied. As the little king -that young half-formed being- raged, challenged, and won. That eternal power had come, and I will see to it that power bares my mark. For, forever tied to me, my crown of green flame shall be; any other who carries it shall permeate my power and name forevermore. Of that I am sure. 

And so I wander out the old oak doors of my castle, wander into the charred dilapidated lands that surround it. My boots stomp and crush the decayed underbrush, twigs snap and crack. Grasping a once empowered and daunting tree, it crumbles to ash and dust at the barest touch, yet there is no satisfaction in crushing such an empty thing. 

And then I sense the power, mirthful and protective, as he approaches. The young king dressed still in his blacks and whites. He came to me out of curiosity and responsibility, not out of fear nor being forced by my power. Likely the only being who could or would ever do such. 

Casting my gaze only slightly downwards, as he has grown alongside his power. Before what was nothing but an insolent child, now stands raw power. Wise blazing green eyes that stand as the only hint of colour on him, thick fangs and sharpened claws that he certainly bared readily, ears drawn to points framing still wild hair, and broad muscular shoulders fit for a cape if he had one. I decide he shall have that as well, one of cold fire and black velvet. He will take it, for we are not so different. Two beings of power; standing with the ultimate goal of more power. Even if he will not admit to such.

I turn and stomp off to my dilapidated castle, throwing a curt nod over my shoulder at the half-formed being. He follows with caution but absolute confidence. Clear knowledge of his power, certainly none could be such without megalomania in tow.

In all my times, in all I have done, it was by name of power. Power consumes all and contains all. I say not whether I was right nor wrong. Such things are beneath me, for only the weak contemplate whether they are just by others notions. The powerful, the kings, by their very existence are always simply doing what they please. I exist not by the morals or opinions of any other, for such words are meaningless in the face of my grand power. Much like a fly to a lion. The fly might be noticed by the lion, but the lion will brush It off like the nothing It is. 

Pushing aside the grand doors, creaking as they go; dust cascading down to rest on our shoulders. I step before my throne, the man behind me; his expression one of contemplation and the desire for me to say my peace. I will as I please, for even time is naught in the face of true power. Though everything changes with time, it will change according to _my will._

My way of gathering and exerting power may have been corroded by time, but my power will remain. My power which has scalded, scarred, and destroyed so much and so many. All that I ever could do; and it was nothing but perfection in its time. In the era of Darkness. But in this new time, this new age, fear through power is not brought by control nor crushing a foe, but rather by words and support. Neither of which fit my name, the name of Pariah Dark. But it will be tied to my name, here and now.

Turning to him, I grin, say my piece, and grant myself a god. For those who become eternally remembered, never to fade into forgotten history, know power eternal. 

“I, in the name of rage; sentence you to this crown”.

“One to whom bares no shackles”.

“Accept the endless power in your Core”.

“Created by ghostly sway”.

“To know powers name forevermore”.

There is shock in him but he does not show it, composure; one of many gifts that power over one's self gives. A blazing crown of green alights his head as I summon up a cape. A cape of black velvet and a lining of white plush, white flames blaze off the collar; the sides to be held together by blazing green skulls -much like my own- and a thick chain of shadowy darkness. A blazing P encircled by a crown adorns the back as a bold centrepiece and show of his name. For the monochromed one is king, and he is far more powerful than he is given credit for. 

Now my power joined to him, granting us both so much more.

He understands what this means and while once he may have been shy or rejected this. He does so no more, power always does what it wants and it always wants more. 

And it is thus, that here I am getting my more in granting him, his more. As yesterday he was the most powerful of beings around, and now there is nothing that can ever wield more power. But forever that power shall feed into my name and power, just the same as a child’s accomplishments forever lift up their makers. 

I fling the cape across his broad shoulders, our eyes never leaving the others; as dust and heavy air is blown away from us. It settles on him as even the universe bends to the will of power. The binding chain of darkness snapping together over his chest; though not covering that symbol of his that so many have rallied behind. I let my hands fall to my sides as the cape billows faintly in the wind. 

The passing of power. 

Of throne. 

Of rule. 

Complete.

And now, with no more power to gain, I slump to sit upon my tattered throne; for I am free to go. 

With that, a once mighty feared king turns to dust in the wind. Dancing in the name of power seen absolute, in front of the face of this Realms Phantom king. 

**End**.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Pariah Dark is free, but he is conflicted. He sits on his throne, and looks upon his ruined kingdom. Thinking back on his life. Does he feel remorse or glee at his actions?


End file.
